I tried to celebrate your birthday quietly. To hug you to myself and cradle your memories and bask in my fortune at being loved by you. It was a silent day, the hours bristling with things unsaid, and aside from an oblique mention to the Boy and a brisk, awkward acknowledgement to Dad, I bent inward and let you incubate in me.

But now I want the world to know. You, the most beautiful of women. You, of the grey eyes, porcelain skin and sparkling wit. Your heart larger than your slender gold-bangled hands that patted me to sleep each night. Your temper shorter than your bobbed hair. Your eagerness to devour the world. To engulf me in hugs. To shower “dearies” on my emaciated soul. Your laughter, liberation and military order. And midget nail scissors wielded compulsively. Your sharp mind slipping away into a fog of grey. Your sprightly legs that exhausted us. The parchment skin that contained our history. The flannel blanket you laid for me nightly. Your belief I was leaving forever. And then, turning the tables and slipping away before I could burst out from behind the door, laughing “Here I am!”

You left. Just like that. Because I wasn’t little anymore? Because I had parents? Because you had taught me all? Because you thought I was ready?

Now I know what I must do. And when she is born, my beloved soul, you shall have your answer. Or perhaps you already do. And it is I who must await mine.